


Baby, You're a Star

by ItsClydeBitches



Category: Jupiter Ascending (2015)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Rock Band, Even stuck firmly on Earth, F/M, Fluff, JA Secret Santa, Jupiter's life still gets weird, Music, Warning for Jupiter and Co's potty mouths
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-17
Updated: 2016-01-17
Packaged: 2018-05-14 13:40:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,874
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5745931
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ItsClydeBitches/pseuds/ItsClydeBitches
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>All human band!AU: Jupiter is just the poor sub manning the merch table. She didn't expect to get roped into a Space Dogs vs. The Entitles battle.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Baby, You're a Star

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Lordbalemabrasax for the JA Secret Santa. Hope you enjoy! <3

When Jupiter turned six (“The number of Venus, dear. Harmony, sincerity, patience…”) Nino had sat her down and informed her, completely straight-faced, that Jupiter’s life would be filled with great achievement and passionate love. She had read the stars and this destiny was imminent. It could not be denied.

 

Jupiter wondered now if ‘great achievement’ included selling t-shirts at exorbitant prices.

 

“Thirty-five!” she called into the crowd, waving the tee weakly. “Two for fifty! Get ‘em while they last!”

 

A girl wearing Kalique’s new lipstick and a “ _Titillating Titus_ ” badge sneered as she walked passed, raising her eyebrows as the mound of shirts carefully folded behind Jupiter, the other fifteen or so hanging around her stall.  


“They could sell out at any moment!” Jupiter insisted, angrily shooing the girl away with said shirt.

 

She left, lifting her middle finger as she went.

 

“Oh forget it.”

 

With a sigh Jupiter tossed the shirt back onto the counter, then carefully unfolded it to get a look at the design. It wasn’t a _bad_ looking shirt exactly. Just… busy. The lead singer posed in the middle, microphone to his lips, left arm flung out dramatically despite his stony expression. The body of the shirt followed his jean-clad legs and ended at his feet— _rollerblades?_ —while musical notes and shooting stars dotted the background. Across the bottom the band’s name was displayed in colorful block letters: _Space Dogs_.

 

Jupiter blinked. “What the fuck.”

 

“Yo.”

 

She jumped, lowering the shirt to find a young girl leaning lazily against the counter. She raised her hand to Jupiter, brushing blonde hair out of her face before aiming a finger gun at the back rack of shirts, the ones in black.

 

“Small please.”

 

“Oh. R-right. ‘Course!”

 

The girl smiled as Jupiter hurried over, trying to pull a small out from the teetering tower of shirts. She hopped right up on the counter as she grabbed two twenties from her pocket.

 

“I’m your first customer, aren’t I?” she asked, tossing the money down.

 

“… maybe.”

 

The girl snorted. “Figures. I’m Kiza.” She took the shirt from Jupiter and stuffed it under one arm, holding out her hand for a shake. “Don’t take it personally. I’m sure it’s not your selling skills. These things are hideous.”

 

Despite the heat and the crowds and the fact that she hadn’t eaten all day, Jupiter found herself grinning. “Jupiter. Thanks. And if that’s true you’re buying one because…?”

 

Kiza leaned forward conspiratorially, cupping one hand around her mouth. “Because my lame dad’s in the band.”

 

“That’s your dad?”

 

“Nah. _That’s_ dad,” and she unfurled the shirt to point at a bee flying sluggishly among the stars. “We’re bee keepers most of the time. Got our hives a couple miles outside the city. Dad threw a right fit when Caine named the group _Space Dogs_ —who wouldn’t—so he snuck a few preferences into the design.” Kiza leaned forward, narrowing her eyes. “Pretty sure there’s supposed to be a middle finger in here somewhere…”

 

Jupiter chuckled, counting out five dollars in change. Kiza waved the money away.

 

“Keep it. I doubt the organizers are paying you anything decent. How’d you get roped into this anyway?”

 

“Well,” Jupiter drawled, leaning on the counter beside Kiza’s knee. “My mom cleans the house of the Dunlevys, right? Who have a daughter named Katharine, who dated one of these band leaders at one point or another.” She gestured to the crowd, growing even larger as dusk began to fall. “She promised him that she’d man his merch table and earn him lots of rep. Probably thought that was sexy or something. Except _then_ they break up and suddenly Katharine is contracted with this gig to sell her ex’s shit which, okay, I get that she’s not pleased about it. So she offers me a pair of old Louis Vuitton heels to take her place—right.” Jupiter nodded at Kiza’s low whistle. “Who cares what they’re paying me. That’s not why I’m here. But THEN the douche ex’s band breaks up too, this space is snatched up by, apparently, you’re dad’s group, and here I am selling t-shirts on a scorching Saturday for a band I’ve never even heard of.” Jupiter shrugged. “Well, _failing_ to sell them.”

 

“You’ve sold one,” Kiza said and shook hers with a grin.

 

“Great.”

 

“That sounds like something out of a sitcom though,” Kiza said. She tilted her head back with a laugh. “Besides. _No one’s_ heard of Dad’s group. Don’t let that get to you. We—”

 

Kiza was cut off by a sudden shriek from the massive crowd, the shrill voices causing both women to slap hands over their ears. The source of the commotion was immediately apparent as three figures slipped through the mob, parting fans left and right like the red sea. Jupiter felt her mouth twisting into a disgusted frown.

 

“I’ve heard of _them_ though,” she muttered.

 

“No shit. Who hasn’t.”

 

The three performers got close enough for Jupiter to get a good look and her stomach sank at how stupidly _beautiful_ they were. Kalique, Titus, Balem… _The Entitles_ , Chicago’s local rock stars, but soon to be national stars if the rumors could be believed. They’d come out of seemingly nowhere, taking the Rock world by storm with hits they released directly online, raising devotion with accompanying videos and ‘backstage’ pics. Supposedly they were half siblings through their mother and Jupiter believed it: only genetics could produce that same level of perfection and arrogance.

 

Kalique was the youngest. She was probably around Kiza’s age, though her makeup and revealing clothes made her appear far older. She had one manicured hand keeping her guitar steady on her back while the other fiddled with Titus’ suit jacket. The middle child grinned rakishly, simpering to Kalique in a voice too low for Jupiter to hear. He twirled a drumstick expertly between two fingers and the action caused an ecstasy of sexual frustration to sweep through the crowd. One guy looked ready to faint.

 

Only Balem remained aloof. He led the pack, everyone else filing in behind him like obedient dogs, including Kalique and Titus. Jupiter peered curiously at his ensemble, black except for the gold jewelry he’d draped on his hands and wrists. There were so many necklaces stacked that they looked like a collar and all of them clinked expensively as he strolled by. He lifted a hand to his devotees with nary a care in the world.

 

“Looks like an ass,” Jupiter muttered.

 

“Uh huh,” Kiza said. “There.”

 

She pointed to another man beside Balem, so small and insignificant as to nearly be lost amongst the Abrasax glory. He too wore all black and Jupiter’s first thought was that he could do with some color, considering how pale he was. He had rat-like features and a twitchy manner that spoke of too many sleepless nights.

 

Kiza shook her head sadly. “Guy’s name is Chicanery. Dad met him once. Lucky that he got the place of the Abrasaxs’ manager. Unlucky that it’s costing him his soul. Pretty sure he’s taken up drinking by now.”

 

Jupiter spotted a significant bulge in the back pocket of Chicanery’s jeans. “Pretty sure you’re right.”

 

“ _Kiza!_ ”

 

The women turned, momentarily distracted as a man came rushing up to the booth, gesturing wildly. He had to pause to catch his breath, bent over with hands on his knees.

 

“Yo Dad,” Kiza said.

 

“Oh.” Jupiter craned to get a better look at the guy. “Hello, Mr…”

 

“Apini. Stinger Apini.”

 

Jupiter narrowed her eyes Kiza. “Are you fucking with me?”

 

“Nah.” Kiza grinned. “It’s his stage name. He had it legally changed when I was born. Told you he was lame.”

 

“ _Kiza_ ,” Stinger insisted, shushing them with a violent gesture. “You’re _not_ doing this.”

 

“… Okay.” Kiza cocked her head. “Geez, Dad, thanks for telling me I can’t do the thing I didn’t even know I wanted to do. What are you on about?”

 

“We—”

 

“Lost T’sing.”

 

Jupiter’s mouth dropped open as another man arrived, seeming to glide out of the dust like some sort of hunky, perfectly muscled god. Blonde hair flecked with gold, just the right amount of facial hair, a don’t-fuck-with-me-expression that threw Jupiter back to her irrevocable bad-boy preference. He was wearing tight jeans like everyone else in this joint and a stiff, sleeveless shirt that was cut away almost entirely in the back, showing off a detailed tattoo of wings. Jupiter might have squeaked just a bit.

 

She didn’t move until she felt two fingers firmly lifting her chin. Jupiter snapped her mouth shut under Kiza’s amused look.

 

“Don’t drool on the shirts,” she said, expression wicked, but then Kiza immediately grew serious, her gaze snapping to Stinger and Hottie Mc’Hot Pants.

 

“What’s this about T’sing?”

 

“She’s out,” Mr. Scorching said, his voice a deep rumble that weakened Jupiter’s knees like a fucking mallet blow. She swallowed hard when it seemed like— _praise everything_ —she wasn’t the only one effected. Hottie was staring right at her.

 

“ _Out_?” Kiza yelped, ignoring the guy’s wandering attention. “What do you mean, ‘out’?”

 

“He means she’s done,” Stinger said. “We knew it was coming but fuck, we didn’t think she’d pull out right before this gig. She’s got an applicant’s exam though. Conflict. Can’t blame her, really.”

 

“Exam?”

 

“Gonna be a cop.”

 

“Huh,” Kiza said. “Good for T’sing. Better than you two losers. How are you performing without her though?”

 

For the first time Hunky’s gaze turned away and Jupiter felt like she could breathe again. The guy instead glared at Stinger, the two of them facing off in front of the stall.

 

“No,” Stinger growled.

 

“Yes.”

 

“Great comeback, kid, but the answer’s still ‘no.’ She’s not strong enough.”

 

“Who else then?”

 

“Ah,” Kiza nodded, leaning into Jupiter and speaking as if the two men weren’t there. “Old fight. I _could_ sing… if I didn’t have crippling asthma.” She pulled an inhaler happily from her jacket pocket, waving it for Jupiter’s benefit. “Amazing how much Caine loves embracing denial.”

 

“Caine?” Jupiter asked, focusing in on the word. Hottie turned towards her again and yes, yes, _yes_.

 

“Caine Wise,” he introduced himself. He held out a hand and Jupiter grinned like a loon as she took it. His palm was big and warm and calloused and _everything_ wonderful. His expression wasn’t anything to grin over though.

“Frankly, miss, we’re fucked.” Caine let go and ran the hand through his hair, disheveling the short strands. “Would’ve been one thing if T’sing got sick or something, but dropping out completely… well, it leaves us with nothing. Rules say you need at least three per band. Otherwise we can’t perform.”

 

“And wouldn’t that be a shame.”

 

The four of them turned, registering different levels of shock as they found Balem crowding them against the both. Titus and Kalique stood behind him, flanking either shoulder, and the rest of the crowd gave them all a fair bit of space, perhaps realizing that this was something even they shouldn’t intrude on. They still kept up the whispers though. Balem smiled thinly at the commotion.

 

“Quite a shame,” he repeated. “Especially given the purpose of this festival. Why, I was informed that a number of agents were stopping by—even talk of record deals. If they like what they hear, of course. Art isn’t for just anyone.” His eyes trailed significantly over Caine and Stinger’s forms.

 

Jupiter hated how memorized she was by that voice. She’d heard that _The Entitles_ signature sound was Balem’s whispery singing, but she hadn’t realized the sound extended to his everyday speech as well. Maybe he was just doing it for the fans at his back. Either way, it was both hypnotizing and endlessly grating. Jupiter ground her teeth together and glared.

 

“Why don’t you just drop out?” Kalique suggested, face innocent, her own voice oddly persuasive.

 

Titus sneered. “Yes. Aren’t you a little… _old_ for this business?”

 

“Please,” Stinger spit. “Me and mine were creating this music while the likes of you were still in diapers. Don’t talk to me about things like _age_.”

 

Beside her, Caine let out a low growl in the back of his throat. Titus raised his hands in a parody of fear.

 

“Perhaps,” Balem said. “But if you truly understand this world than you must know that there is a hierarchy. Some stars will always matter more than others.” He spread his hands and for the first time Jupiter realized that his shirt wasn’t entirely black. There was a design decorating it in faint silver: Balem’s abstract symbol, surrounded on both sides by an intertwining dragon and dragonfly. Jupiter had to admit—if only to herself—that it did look pretty awesome. Far cooler than _Space_ _Dogs_.

 

But who the hell cared about cool? This guy was a _dick_.

 

“Maybe they do love you.” Jupiter was surprised to hear her own voice challenging Balem. She crossed her arms as everyone turned to her, Caine’s gaze particularly potent. “So what? You’re just gonna use those poor fans—suck them dry like creepy musical vampires.” (Kiza looked like she wanted to laugh, but she straightened her face and nodded in agreement). “One of these days they’re gonna wake up and realize they want more than just your shitty, whispery songs. They’re gonna demand loyalty and it’s someone like Stinger who they’ll turn to to get it.” Jupiter cocked her thumb at him, ignoring Stinger’s shocked, grateful look.

 

Balem and his entourage just seemed amused. And pitying.

 

“Well then,” he whispered. “Perhaps you should concentrate on selling those horrendous shirts. Your precious band might not get anything resembling recognition tonight, but perhaps you can all make enough for dinner.”

 

He snapped his fingers and Chicanery came scurrying forward. He threw a small wad of cash onto their table, looking torn between obedience and discomfort. Jupiter gapped at it as the four of them slinked away.

 

“ _Wow_ ,” she said. “Fuck them.”

 

“Please don’t,” Stinger growled. “As far as I’m aware, you and Kiza the only ones who _don’t_ want to fuck that asshole.”

 

“He’d half to pay me more than this to fuck his asshole.”

 

“Kiza!”

 

She pocketed the money with a shrug.

 

Stinger firmly pressed two fingers against the bridge of his nose. “Right. That kid… sort of has a point. He is a kid. He’s younger than me. Shit. And more handsome. And stupidly rich. BUT. We’ve got music on our side.” He straightened up, reminding Jupiter of those protagonists in sports films who suddenly find Their Strength and, you know, manage to win and stuff. “We need to _crush_ them.”

 

“You need a singer,” Kiza pointed out.

 

“We need a miracle…”

 

“How about you?”

 

Jupiter jumped when Caine’s voice came directly next to her ear. She whirled, eyes blowing wide at the whole ton of hotness staring her down. Caine smelled slightly sweaty from the summer heat and Jupiter knew she was a goner when that actually made her want to get closer instead of backing off with hand sanitizer and a can of Febreze. She was a little preoccupied with staring at a set of very pink lips… it took her a moment to realize that Caine had asked her a question.

 

“Wha?” Jupiter said intelligently.

 

Caine smiled for the first time and oh _fuck_.

 

“Do you like the band?”

 

“I-I love dogs. I’ve always loved dogs.”

 

… _What?_

 

“Someone save her,” she heard Kiza mutter.

 

Caine saved her. He came around to the side of the booth and Jupiter realized with a start that he was _actually wearing rollerblades_. Like in the design. She gaped and pointed like a particularly eloquent trout.

 

“Uh, why?”

 

“Because I like them. Sort of how you like dogs.”

 

Caine shook out one of the t-shirts and gently pulled it over a blushing Jupiter’s head. She put her arms through the sleeves automatically, marveling at everything from Caine’s balance on the rollerblades to the way her ponytail got caught in the fabric. When she was properly attired with the _Space Dogs_ logo, Jupiter grinned at the three of them, slightly dazed.

 

“Haaaaa,” she said. “I’ve never sung before.”

 

Caine clapped a hand on her shoulder. It might have been just a friendly gesture if it wasn’t for the thumb that started gently stroking Jupiter’s skin above the collar of her shirt. She shivered.

 

“There’s a telemonitor. It’ll be fine.”

 

“It’ll be a disaster,” Stinger said, but he sounded oddly pleased about it.

 

Kiza hopped down from the booth. “At least it’ll be fun.”

 

“C’mon. We need to get backstage. I’m not letting the brat hog all the spotlight.”

 

Jupiter followed them, leaving the towering pile of shirts unattended. She wasn’t too concerned with them being stolen or anything. No, she was more preoccupied with the fans whispering as they pushed through the crowd, the fact that she’d never tired singing anything other than ‘Happy Birthday’ before, the equally desperate desire to watch someone wipe that smug smile off Balem Abrasax’s face…

 

… the feel of Caine’s hand in hers, leading as he skated just slightly ahead.

 

Was this great achievement and passionate love?

 

Maybe. Maybe it could be. Jupiter suddenly grinned, thinking ahead to the weekend.

 

Perhaps those Louis Vuitton heels would be good for a date.

 

 

 

 


End file.
